


my heart is dead for all to see

by srednia



Category: Best Friends Forever (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:26:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srednia/pseuds/srednia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know I’d do anything for you, quarter back,” he snarks but they hold eye contact long enough that he has to tear himself away before Vincent starts to realize how true that really is.</p><p>His hands shake when he touches Vincent’s face and he doesn’t want to think about what that could mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is dead for all to see

**Author's Note:**

> I see a lot more in Louis than what's just on the surface; he loves too much for someone who's never been loved and it breaks my heart.
> 
> title is from "beekeeper" by keaton henson

In hindsight, he should have seen it coming.

Vincent kisses him breathless in the threshold of his front door and Louis’ mind goes blank. He’s always been disciplined in his avoidance of tenderness but the way Vincent ghosts his thumbs over the delicate skin of his hip bones… He’s touched and been touched enough for a lifetime but the reverence contained in those sweet moments where every brush of skin on skin is enough to bring him to tears but Louis doesn’t cry anymore, he’s made damn sure of that, and the unfamiliar pressure building up behind his eyes is petrifying. 

He’s always been the type to make himself larger than life, pea-cocking to all hell to create a distraction from -well- _everything_. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror of his bathroom after Louis fucks him and sucks in a sharp breath when he’s met with the empty shell of himself. The hard lines of his chin jutting out sharper than he’s ever remembered, and the deep purple bruises beneath his eyes and lining his clavicle bloom against his skin, frail and almost translucent. He can see the blood rushing through his veins and hear it pounding in his ears and it’s deafening. He looks gaunt, small, and hollow and it’s fucking terrifying. His chest tightens dangerously as Vincent wraps a towel around his narrow shoulders and noses at the softly dampened hair curling around the back of his neck, murmuring gentle nothings that Louis will never deserve and he wants to throw up.

He stares straight ahead and wills his bottom lip to stop trembling.

***

The smell of sex and sweat isn’t foreign to him but it’s never smelled this sweet. His heart doesn’t race for reasons other than exertion - he knows that, he doesn’t allow it to - but the tightness beneath his ribs is enough to make him choke on Vincent’s soft breath as he pants into his mouth, perched above him in a position of perilous tenderness. They bump noses and their teeth clash biting at each other unable to get enough. It’s messy, and imperfect, a little too rough, maybe a touch too hesitant, and Louis is _breathless_. The noises escaping their lips are too delicate and venerable to even speak of and Louis finds himself praying to _God_ for it to end. For the panic rising dangerously in his throat to dissipate, for the strangled half moan half sob that claws its way from deep within his gut to vanish into the unnerving quiet of his bedroom but of course it doesn’t. Desperate humiliation is a rude side effect of actually giving a shit about someone.

Louis comes first with a burst of white light blown out behind his eyelids, squeezed shut, and it’s the first time sex has felt like it could actually _mean something_.

Vincent collapses on top of him, gentle even in the post coital haze and trails barely there kisses along the crease of Louis’ jaw. He lets the softest moan escape his lips with a silent prayer for the warmth blooming in his chest to freeze over. He’s tried being clinical about this _thing_ between them but Vincent’s smile, his words, his every touch have left Louis raw and exposed. He untangles himself from Vincent’s strong arms and pulls himself shakily to sit on the edge of the bed. He grabs a blunt and drapes Louis’ discarded dress shirt over his thinning frame dwarfing himself in the sharp smell of salt, soap and _Vince_. Vincent trails his fingers gently up the column of his spine and he freezes, fingers trembling on the lighter. He swears and gives up, tossing it to the side as the heat in the pit of his belly unsettlingly until he feels a bright flush warm his face.

He throws himself across Vincent’s chest before he can see and bites his lip at the low chuckle reverberating throughout his body. Curling his cold toes against Vincent’s calves he lets himself feel the warmth of another body, and he let’s out a stuttering sigh at the softness of Vincent’s breath against his cheek because of course even the way he breathes make him ache.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into the top of Louis’ head and he can barely bite back the swell of affection he’s been so _fucking_ good at avoiding all these years.

He looks up to meet his gaze with a watery half smirk and taps him on the nose with a dismissive snort.

“You know I’d do anything for you, quarter back,” he snarks but they hold eye contact long enough that he has to tear himself away before Vincent starts to realize how true that really is.

His hands shake when he touches Vincent’s face and he doesn’t want to think about what that could mean.

***

A part of Louis has probably always wanted Vincent, but coming to admit it has never really been a top priority, especially not to himself. Somehow through all the years of faux bravado and self-hatred he hasn’t found himself to be the most desirable of confidants. He’s always been a chronic sufferer of self loathing, but from the instance their lips first met in that damned swimming pool he’s felt like he could walk on water.

(The reality is he’s one misstep away from drowning, and it scares the shit out of him how comforting that is.)

Vincent kissed him, lightheaded, lungs screaming with every inhale and seeded a spark deep within begging him to confess: _this has never just been about sex_. 

He’s always let his eyes linger on the sloping curve of Vincent’s lower spine, held eye contact a second more than he should, and allowed himself to be liberal with his hands to Vincent’s total chagrin. He smirks knowingly when their eyes meet across the room and no one ever questions it. Making himself known is less embarrassing than being caught in the act and so what if it makes Vince hate him? Not like he ever thought he’d actually have a chance, Vincent has never been able to match the tenderness he so obviously holds for Teddy. He knew from the second they first touched that Vincent would never look at him like he was the only other one in the room.

But sometimes he lets himself wonder _maybe_.

He loses himself in Vincent’s eyes sitting across from him at the food court and is overwhelmed with the urge to take his hand and bring it to his lips. He wants to claim Vincent, he wants everyone to _know_. He’s selfish, narcissistic and fucking _needy_ as all hell and Vincent knows that and he’s sitting across the table from him and he’s smiling, and blushing, and his laugh could light up the whole night sky. He could spend years waxing poetic about the veins in his hands and the way he holds Louis _just right—_

Sometimes he talks about Teddy just to watch Vincent’s reaction. His face softens and Louis is invisible in the chair across from him. It helps to twist the knife every now and then. It keeps him humble and gives him something else to not cry over when he’s in a public washroom suppressing the increasingly frequent rises of panic welling up behind his ribs. He’s been hiding a tremor for months now and he’d be stupid to think Vincent would notice. 

He’d be stupid to think there was someone out there that cared at all.

***

Louis and Vincent know things about each other. Vincent can’t drink booze unless it’s loaded with sugar. Vincent has a spot deep in the crevice of his lower back that makes him absolutely purr when Louis presses his lips there, even in the gentle throws of making love (they crossed the line of just sex months ago but neither will ever be apt to admit it). Vincent smells like sweat and something so sweet it brings a lump to Louis’ throat. Vincent is a nurturer and he loves with a purity Louis can only long for. Louis panics when he loses control and Vincent uses his every touch to reassure and comfort and make Louis feel safe; after the first few fucks he finally relented to being held, curling inward like a frightened cat and holding his breath until he felt Vincent’s lips ghosting softly across his temple. Louis is jealous and horrifically insecure. Louis wears twelve dollar cologne but would never admit it. Louis’ love is messy, dirty, and biting; Vincent has no place being on the receiving end.

Louis pretends to like it rough, and maybe it’s because he’s always wanted what he thinks he deserves.

***

Maybe he should have realized it was more than just sex when just kissing became more than enough. When the brush of Vincent’s hand on his lower back in front of their friends - too quick to catch, but his heart skips a beat all the same - is a more exciting prospect than getting drunken head in a shitty bathroom at some shitty party. 

Vincent fucks him in the shower so hard that he’s at a loss for words, a strangled animalistic cry the only response he’s even capable of giving, but nothing could make him feel better than Vincent’s deft hands massaging shampoo into his scalp as they let the hot water beat down on their backs in a serene, therapeutic torture.

(They both know they’re hurting each other but neither of them is an expert on self preservation.)

Louis wakes up in the back of John’s car after getting so drunk he can barely move. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping Vincent would be the one to take care of him, but Louis’ never been one to tell the truth

***

They’re in his dads house and Louis can’t breathe, locking himself in the icy bathroom with a bottle of Grey Goose leaning his head against the stark marble tile. He’s always avoided being near Teddy and Vincent and I guess now he knows why. Sometimes it feels like Vincent holds him with purpose and kisses him hard and it can be painfully easy to forget that he’s only there by proxy and that knowledge leaves him shattered.

 

***

Louis tells Vincent that he loves him in a hospital. 

The rhythmic beeping of the machines does nothing to qualm the race of his heart as he brushes his fingers across the angles of Vincent’s pallid cheekbones. His voice cracks on the first syllable and his shoulders are convulsing and his chest is burning with emotion and lack of breath and terror and he can’t breathe. He just _feels_ more than he could even begin to handle. He lets the tears fall for the first time since he can remember and it’s at this point staring at Vincent with his slack jaw and his stupid hair emo haircut and his lips which have been places that would make The Heavens squirm and his big, strong hands deathly pale and attached to a drip of only the Lord knows what with only the thought of how _beautiful_ he is all the fucking time racing through his head that he knows he’s absolutely done for. 

“Vin, you’re a fucking idiot,” he manages between rattling sobs letting his fingers run gently over the soft skin of his inner forearm, feeling his pulse because he’s scared to death that it could stop, “I fucking love you, you know? I’ve loved you for years and you try and fucking kill yourself over Teddy _fucking_ Bijapur,” he sniffles gracelessly and runs a shaking hand through his hair letting it stick out in twelve different directions. He can’t bring himself to care anymore.

He holds Vincent’s hand gently between his own, and presses it to his lips and holds it there. It’s cold to the touch and that scares Louis more than he’d like to admit. He’s strung out and tired and his eyes are burning from tears and lack of sleep. He forces himself to breathe and almost laughs at how he ended up here breaking down next to a hospital bed in Canada, of all places. 

Someone clears their throat behind him and Louis turns ready to snap. He’s been put through the fucking ringer this week and he looks the part _Good,_ he thinks, _let them see. Let me be their fucking warning._ Teddy is standing nervously at the edge of the door frame and from the look on his face it’s obvious he’s been there a little too long for comfort, shifting from foot to foot, knitting his hands anxiously as if he’s about to speak. The absence of words hangs thick and syrupy in the air between them. 

Louis stands unsteadily, pushing Vincent’s long bangs off his face giving himself a few more seconds to just look at him like this with all the gentleness he’s been too terrified to bare. He lets his lips graze Vincent’s cheek and swipes his thumb gently over the spot with a sad smile. He turns to face Teddy and he wants to look menacing, wants him to know the extent of the vitriol that’s been rotting his gut for so fucking long but he’s tired and sore and his brain is aches. He shakes his head and stares at Teddy in a way he could only describe as mournful and he’s making himself sick. 

“You’ll never deserve him,” he spits but he starts crying again before he can even finish his sentence. Teddy’s about to say something his stupid big eyes watery and unsure, but Louis just holds up his hand and murmurs “Don’t,” before making a graceless exit into the iridescent light of the hall. 

*** 

Three hours later Vincent wakes up to to Teddy's face hovering at his side and Louis has a panic attack in a parking lot. 


End file.
